Grace's Story Read online

  Grace's Story

  Jennie Walters

  (2011)

  Tags: Swallowcliffe Hall Book 2

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  Synopsis

  'Downton Abbey' from the servants' point of view! Another fascinating chapter in the life of Swallowcliffe Hall, a grand old English country house. It's 1914, and World War One is about to change the lives of the aristocratic Vye family and their servants for ever. The war brings tragedy in its wake but also new opportunities for Grace, Polly's daughter and a reluctant kitchenmaid. As most of the young male servants leave Swallowcliffe to fight in France, trainloads of wounded soldiers begin to arrive at the Hall in their place to convalesce. Grace begins to realize the terrible effect the war is having and worries desperately about her beloved brother Tom, away at the Front. Nobody is safe, not even Lord and Lady Vye, making their way back from America aboard the ill-fated liner Lusitania. And then Grace finds herself falling in love - with the wrong person. Can she ever escape from the servants' hall, or is the old order as strong as ever?

  Swallowcliffe Hall

  2

  Grace’s Story

  Jennie Walters

  Kindle edition

  http://www.jenniewalters.com

  Books by Jennie Walters:

  The Swallowcliffe Hall trilogy:

  Polly’s Story

  Grace’s Story

  Isobel’s Story

  See You in my Dreams – A ghost story with a difference

  For my mother

  First published in Great Britain in 2006 by Simon and Schuster UK under the title ‘Standing in the Shadows’

  Whilst we have tried to ensure the accuracy of this book, the author or publishers cannot be held responsible for any errors or omissions found therein.

  All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for your personal use only and may not be resold or given away to other people.

  Copyright © Jennie Walters, 2006, 2011

  Cove r design by Amanda Lillywhite, www.crazypanda.com

  Cove r photograph of Edna Rauh, now Mrs Edna Rauh Millican, reproduced by her permission; with thanks to her and Mrs Susan Kane

  Table of Contents

  Swallowcliffe Hall 2: Grace’s Story

  Swallowcliffe Hall 3: Isobel’s Story, Chapter One

  About the Author

  One

  This day will be momentous in the history of all time. Last evening Germany sent a curt refusal to the demand of this country that she, like France, should respect the neutrality of Belgium. Thereupon the British Ambassador was handed his passports, and a state of war was formally declared by this country.

  From The Times, 5 August 1914

  ‘Oh, Gracie, you are a sight,’ my mother said, picking leaves out of my hair. ‘I hope none of the family saw you like this.’

  We’re almost the same height now, so her brown eyes were looking straight into mine. You can tell we’re mother and daughter, I suppose, although my hair’s a little fairer than hers, but it has to be said that light brown hair and dark brown eyes are about the only two things we have in common.

  ‘Now sit down while I put the kettle on,’ she said, ‘and tell me all the news from the Hall. Are you getting on any better in the kitchen?’

  I tried to ignore that question. ‘Two footmen and one of the garden lads have volunteered for the army already. Alf told Florrie all about it.’

  Florrie’s first kitchenmaid above me at Swallowcliffe and Alf’s her young man - he works in the gardens too. Florrie thought it wouldn’t be long before he joined up, although he had an elderly mother who wanted to keep him wrapped up in cotton wool and we knew she wouldn’t let him go in a hurry.

  ‘You don’t say.’ A shadow passed across my mother’s face and she shook her head a little, as if to clear it. Then she pulled out a chair opposite me. ‘Now, who was that I saw coming back from the railway station in His Lordship’s Rolls-Royce? Noisy great thing, it is! And the way that French chauffeur or whatever they call him sounds the horn, you’d think Judgement Day had come.’

  My parents live in the gate lodge at Swallowcliffe Hall. I moved out as soon as I started working in the big house and now I share a room up there with Florrie and Dora, the scullerymaid. Ma used to be a housemaid at Swallowcliffe, but once she married my father (who was a footman at the time), of course she had to give that up. She loves the place as much as ever, though, and opening the gates lets her keep an eye on all the comings and goings. Whenever I call in at home on my afternoons off, I get a regular grilling about what the Vye family are up to.

  ‘They’re having a big luncheon out on the terrace,’ I told her. ‘It must have been the Duke and Duchess of Clarebourne you saw in the Rolls - they’ve come down from London specially. And old Lady Vye’s there, of course.’ (She’s Lord Vye’s widowed mother, and quite a battle-axe; I call her the Dragon Lady to myself. The way she can look at a person sometimes, it’s a wonder flames don’t come shooting out of her mouth.)

  ‘Oh, lovely,’ Ma sighed. ‘I bet the table looks a picture. Now, what did Mrs Jeakes give them to eat?’

  ‘Cold beef and chicken, veal-and-ham pies, and a whole poached salmon. Almond cheesecake and plum tart to follow.’

  I had an idea what might be coming next. Sure enough, my mother pounced. ‘What did you make? Have you moved on to pastry yet? Surely you can’t still be on vegetables and garnishes?’

  ‘I tried my hand at mayonnaise this morning,’ I offered, hoping this would satisfy her. (Of course the wretched thing had curdled, but Ma didn’t need to know that.)

  The look came over her face that I’d come to dread: half disappointment, half worry. ‘You ought to be moving on, Grace, getting your foot on the ladder,’ she said for the twentieth time. ‘Everyone knows Alf’s only waiting for a place as head gardener and a house along with it before he asks Florrie to marry him. There’s a real chance for you to become first kitchenmaid if you work at it.’

  But how could I get excited about that? Most of the time all I wanted was to tear off my apron and run out of the kitchen as fast as my legs could carry me. Sometimes when I was standing over the stove in my thick stockings and heavy apron, the dress underneath plastered against my body like a hot poultice, it felt as though I was suffocating. There wasn’t even a window at head height to give us a breath of air; they’re all set up high in the wall so we couldn’t waste our time staring out. You can imagine what that was like - as if the whole room was one big oven and Mrs Jeakes, Florrie and I were being roasted inside it. I kept thinking some giant was going to reach down through the window and pluck me out when I was done.

  There was no point trying to explain, though. I knew exactly what Ma would say. ‘Count yourself lucky! In my day, the second kitchenmaid had to be up at half past five every morning to light the range, and woe betide her if it wouldn’t draw. You’ve got it easy with that gas stove, not to mention hot water at the flick of a tap. The number of times I had to traipse up and down stairs, filling and emptying those blessed hip baths!’

  The trouble is, no matter how much she might grumble about the old days, she still thinks working at Swallowcliffe Hall is the be-all and end-all of everything. And I’m not sure that it is, for me. So I tried to change the subject. ‘What’s going to happen, Ma? What will they do at the Hall if all the lads enlist?’

  It wasn’t only the young men at Swallowcliffe who’d been on my mind. Ever since we’d heard that war had been declared with Germany, I’d been worrying about my older brother, Tom. As luck would have it, he’d just turned nineteen so he wouldn’t even have to lie to the recruiting officers about his age. He’d followed in my father’s footsteps (Da being coachman at the Hall, running the stables and driving the carriages) and was working as a groom
in Suffolk for the Ildersley family. There’s four years between the two of us, but I’m closer to him than either of my sisters even though he’s a boy. Perhaps it’s because I’m so much of a tomboy myself, as Ma keeps pointing out.

  I couldn’t bring myself to say Tom’s name, but surely she must have been thinking about him too. Why were we chatting about motor-cars and luncheon parties as though everything was the same as usual?

  ‘All the lads won’t enlist,’ my mother declared over the shriek of the kettle. ‘We’ll teach the Kaiser a lesson and the whole thing will have blown over by Christmas, you’ll see. Oh, bother it!’ She had managed to splash boiling water over her hand and would have dropped the teapot if I hadn’t been there to rescue it.

  ‘Here, I should be doing this,’ I said, sitting her back down in the chair and wishing I could have bitten off my tongue. Just because someone doesn’t mention a thing straight out, doesn’t mean it’s not on her mind.

  We chatted about this and that while we drank our tea; safe, everyday gossip that had nothing to do with the war or my prospects in the kitchen. And then we both caught the clip-clop of horses’ hooves outside - quite a few of them, from the sound of it - so I went to the front window to see whether the gates needed opening.

  ‘Ma? Come and look at this!’

  It was such an unexpected sight that I couldn’t trust my own eyes. Together we watched as a line of horses came walking up from Stone Martin village, one after another, not saddled or bridled but tied by their halters to a long rope which kept them together. Some I recognised: a pair of huge Shires with feathery fetlocks who pulled the hay carts at harvest time, two bays from the dairy who collected butter and milk from the farms, and my favourite, the butcher’s black mare following on behind them. I’d christened her Raven when I was little (though I once heard Mr Ryman call her Bessie) and used to bring her apples when Tom and I had been scrumping. She’d come trotting over to the fence to meet me, and delicately twitch the apple from my hand with her soft whiskery lips like a genteel old lady.

  An army man, dressed in khaki, slapped her on the rump and shouted something to make her get along. What could be happening to all these horses? Where were they going? Not to the Hall, that was all we knew; they were being driven straight past our gates. I hurried outside to find out, my mother close behind.

  ‘They’re being shipped across the Channel,’ the soldier told us. ‘Off to serve their King and country - not that they’ve any choice in the matter.’

  ‘But how will we manage without them?’ I protested. ‘You can’t just take them away!’

  ‘Oh yes, we can, young lady. The government says so and we’ve paid their owners fair and square. What do you think our boys will do without horses to bring them supplies and drag the guns about?’

  I knew Mr Ryman thought the world of his fine mare; he’d brush her coat till it shone like black satin and always got out of the cart to lead her up the steep hill on the other side of Stonemartin. He wouldn’t willingly have let her go for a hundred pounds, especially not if there was a chance she’d be hurt. ‘Good luck, Raven. Keep safe,’ I said, stroking her warm, smooth neck and wondering if I would ever see her again.

  There was nothing more we could do. Ma and I had to stand there and watch that long line of horses disappear down the road: all of them patient, steady creatures who were known and loved in the village. A gang of children had come running along at the end of the procession and several of the little ones were crying. There were tears in my eyes too. It didn’t seem right, sending animals across the sea to a war which men had started.

  ‘Let us through, would you? We’re expected,’ called a loud voice. We turned around to see two more soldiers, these ones riding horses of their own and looking like officers, waiting at the gates which my mother - careful as ever - had closed behind her.

  ‘Oh my heavens, they’re going up to the Hall too. Of course!’ she gasped, a hand flying up to her mouth. ‘I wonder if your father knows about this? He never said a word.’

  ‘We have to warn him!’ I didn’t know which way to turn, everything was so sudden and unexpected. It hadn’t occurred to me to think how I could reach the stables before two men on horseback; nor, more to the point, what was to be done once I got there.

  Ma still had her wits about her. ‘Take Tom’s bicycle from the shed. I’ll give them a drink and keep them here as long as I can. Hurry, Grace!’

  I hitched up my skirts and set off hell for leather down the drive, my hair whipping out behind me and my head in a whirl. Those soldiers couldn’t take the Swallowcliffe horses too, could they? It would break my father’s heart.

  ‘There’s nothing to be done, Grace. We have to let these men do their job.’

  Father was busy sweeping the yard; a chore for Bill the stable boy, by rights, though he didn’t seem to be around.

  ‘And what about your job? Are you just going to stand there and wave goodbye to that too?’

  Sweep, sweep, sweep, my father went - like some machine. What was the matter with him? Didn’t he realise what was happening? But then he stopped and looked at me for a second, and I saw the pain in his eyes. ‘How can it be different for us up here than it is for everyone in the village? We can’t go on driving carriages about in front of people who’ve lost their working animals. They’ve done their duty and now we have to do ours.’ He went back to his broom.

  ‘Do all of them have to go?’ I could hardly bring myself to ask.

  ‘The ponies can stay, and Daffodil. She’s too old to be of much use - probably wouldn’t even survive the crossing. They’ve let us keep Her Ladyship’s hunter for now, and Moonlight to pull the gig. The others are off to Southampton.’

  And then to war: the words hung in the air between us.

  ‘I’m sorry, Da.’

  He nodded, and now I understood why he couldn’t look me in the face.

  I propped Tom’s bicycle against a wall and went into the stable block: my favourite place in the whole of Swallowcliffe Hall, for all its crystal chandeliers and fine paintings. It has a high vaulted ceiling held up by marble pillars, flagstones underfoot with a drainage channel down the middle, and a row of stalls, each with its own hay manger and name plate. The stables felt particularly cool and airy that day after the glare of the sun, and little puddles of water lay on the floor from a recent washing. The smell was as sweet as ever: fresh straw, saddle soap and warm animal bodies all mixed up together.

  I started walking along the stalls to take a last look at so many old friends. Major and Rocket, Dolly and Bramble, who pulled the larger carriages; Pearl and Snowflake, two greys who could make a gig or phaeton fly along like the wind; Mercury and Gemini, kept for hacking out and hunting; gentle Rosa, for the novices to ride. I had to give each of them a kiss for luck, and by the time I got to Rosa there was such an ache of sadness in my throat, I could hardly breathe. When I laid my cheek against her side, she bent her head down to mine and nuzzled my hair as if to comfort me. Her breath felt warm on the back of my neck, like a blessing.

  I couldn’t bear to leave her - and then, about to go, I suddenly caught sight of a tall chestnut horse in the stall opposite. Surely not? It couldn’t be!

  A shadow flickered across the light; I turned to see my father framed in the doorway, broom in hand. ‘Not Copenhagen too?’ I asked him. ‘He wasn’t on the list, was he?’

  Da shrugged. ‘His Lordship told me to bring him in and keep him with the others. He says they’re bound to want a fine creature like that - some general will probably take him for riding about on parades.’

  ‘But Copenhagen’s not ours to send away. He belongs to the Colonel! Does he know about this?’

  Colonel Vye is His Lordship’s younger brother - Master Rory, as my mother speaks of him in a forgetful moment (His Lordship is Master Edward, would you believe, which sounds even more unlikely). He lived in London and kept his horse stabled up there for most of the year, but he’d take him to the Hall every summer to str
etch his legs and have a holiday in the countryside with some fresh grass to eat. The Colonel wasn’t at Swallowcliffe that afternoon; I’d heard Mr Fenton, the butler, telling Mrs Jeakes that he wouldn’t be down from London to join the party until the evening. ‘Busy at the War Office, apparently,’ and you could tell just being able to say that made Mr Fenton feel important too. Colonel Vye used to belong to the Household Cavalry but had to leave when he was wounded in the Boer War, although he can still ride. He’d brought Copenhagen to Swallowcliffe as a colt, ten years before, so that my father could help break him in over one long summer.

  ‘I knew that one would be something special from the moment I clapped eyes on him,’ Da was fond of saying. ‘He seems to know what to do before you’ve even thought of telling him.’

  Perhaps that’s why they named him Copenhagen, after the Duke of Wellington’s favourite horse. I rode him myself once, when I was no more than six: Colonel Vye put me up on his back and I took him round the yard to show Her Ladyship how steady he was. (Ma had a fit of the vapours when she found out, although I was never worried for a second.) Lady Vye loves riding, but His Lordship - well, that’s a different story. He had a terrible hunting accident when he was a young man which nearly killed him and never got up on a horse again. The stables at Swallowcliffe would probably have been full of motor-cars if he’d had his way, but with the rest of his family thinking just the opposite, I suppose he had to grit his teeth.

  ‘This isn’t right!’ I said. ‘We can’t let them take Copenhagen, not before he has to go.’

  My father shrugged. ‘I’ve had my orders; His Lordship was quite clear about the matter. Now run along. They’ll be here in a minute and I don’t want you getting in the way.’